After the Rapture
by Zennith6
Summary: Facing his imminent death and crushing defeat at the hands of Tom Riddle, Harry Potter makes a choice that saves countless lives but nevertheless leaves the wizarding world devastated, aimless, broken. In the wake of this collapse and driven by a guilt he cannot overcome, Harry searches for a way to set things right, a way to give back to the world that which he has taken.


Hey folks. This is the first fic I've worked on in quite some time, but I like to think it's a relatively unique plot. Check it our, read and review! You know the drill.

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**AFTER THE RAPTURE**

Sitting and staring, a photograph fifty years old clutched in both hands, I couldn't look away, couldn't set it down. London of decades and decades past. Taken by my grandfather, he was in the city living the beat, writing and drinking and smoking and drinking. This small rebellion away from the world he'd grown up in and would eventually inherit. He took this photograph late one night; he'd been up on a bender, no sleep in almost forty-eight hours he told me. Wandering down from his apartment near the river, he lived with these two guys he knew from his school days, Hogwarts. He wandered with a the camera strap slung around his neck, occasionally stopping to snap photos of the most routine places that in his frenzy seemed to him something more. I'd found the pictures in the old estate, and this was my favorite. The river as a backdrop, sailboats anchored, the focus a young couple in their early twenties leaning against a rail, hands clasped, his head resting on her shoulder. Something so simple, stunning in context. They were still, not moving.

I slipped the photo back into the manila folder from which I'd taken it and stashed the folder away in my canvas shoulder-bag. On my way east, overnight train from Chicago. Long trip. It was late at night and all the other passengers were asleep. I could see my reflection in the window; eyelids heavy, lines drawn, hair shoulder-length and wild. I needed to get it cut. I sat with my knees against the back of the seat in front of me, slumped down and hoping for sleep that would not come. When I was younger the mere act of settling and sitting in a moving vehicle would put me to sleep, that traveling sensation and feel of an engine, ambient energy and noise, it always set me at ease. That ease had left me, though. I didn't know why. I can still sleep in small spaces, though. I feel like I should be claustrophobic, given my history. But I'm not.

That couple from the photo would probably be in their eighties now. I wondered idly if they were still together, or if they were even still alive. I wondered if they even knew that photo had been taken. Probably not. I felt kind of sorry, for no real reason. Just a melancholy air; this general malaise. The guy sitting next to me rolled over; turned to face me. He was sleeping, eyes closed with breathing measured and regular. He was bigger, older, Hawaiian shirt and cropped grey hair. For whatever reason, I thought of school, of the Express in particular. Traveling does that to me, I think.

I let myself indulge in memory for just a moment before I shut my eyes and my mind to my past and tried to tether myself to my old anchors. Clear my mind. That whole drill. I couldn't manage it anymore. It didn't even feel like magic, back when I'd been able, and so in our immediate aftermath, our post-apocalyptic haze I tried to shut out the world and was stunned to find I couldn't. A subtle reminder of how much our magic was infused within even the most latent of abilities, the most subtle of spheres. I tossed and turned.

Eventually, finally, I slept.

I awoke a few hours later and gazed out the window as we hurdled through the rural Pennsylvanian countryside. The flats west of Appalachia. Not much left to the trip. I checked my watch and saw it was nearly nine. We were scheduled in around eleven, eleven-thirty, after which I'd hop a plane to London in the morning. Muggle the whole way. I let my head rest on my hand; elbow perched on my thigh resting up against the window, the vibrations permeated through my skin, my bones, that border between pleasant and painful. Soothing. I wanted to let myself drift off again so that the remainder of the journey would pass without thought, without worry, but my body refused to listen and I remained conscious.

I was going back because I couldn't bear to be away. As much as the city drove me crazy and left me desperate, I couldn't stay put anywhere else. I tried New York. I tried Chicago. Great place, gorgeous, clean, you can swim in the Lake in a way you really can't in Thames. I went skinny-dipping once. But I pine after my grandfather's city. I pine after the river, the frenzy, that elusive renaissance. It's not constant, no; most hours of most days are spent just getting by, struggling for survival. That's true everywhere, but more true in our post-war London, our post-Hogwarts London.

I felt for my wand tucked away inside my jacket pocket and sighed at the comforting, familiar warmth. It was this warmth that kept me going, gave me hope.

The trip itself had amounted to nothing. I'd been desperate, chasing ghosts, and followed one of them here. A story of a woman, Tessa, who'd given magic to muggles – a tanned girl of Mexican descent who grew up in California, she apparently had worked out exactly what it was that made us different. In her experimenting she met a man, an American writer who was gripped with this sense of wanderlust and wonder for the world. She fell in love with him and spent years with him, following him, subtly shaping the world so that it might be better for him.

And then, somehow, apparently, she gave him magic. Nobody knows how. She didn't tell anyone. He'd been a muggle his whole life, no knowledge of our world, not even a squib. And then suddenly… he could _see_. I don't know what happened after that. Her family didn't see him or her for thirty years. She returned home in the sixties. She was alone. She married another man and had children, and those children had children.

The American government had hated her, hunted her. Our Ministry helped, according to records. They'd have done anything to have her back now. She'd been long dead, though, and I couldn't find anyone who remembered more than the mere fact that she'd existed. She had no disciples. Her family knew what she'd done but not how. I'd interviewed them for a while and wished for Legilimancy. Either way, I'd reached a dead end. She was gone and had left no records, no writings; no stories beyond what her grandchildren could tell me.

And so I decided I might as well go home. I wasn't relishing the return or the guilt that would inevitably surface with it, but I had nowhere else to go.

The train came to a final halt there at Grand Central and I took a cab to JFK, the airport that would see me safely ferried home.

To England. To London. To a world that was barely coping, struggling, learning to survive.

To a world without magic.

My glasses were smeared with a mixture of sweat and mud. I could taste copper on my lips as I lay there; face down in the sopping grass that had become our battlefield. Every bone in my body screamed for peace, for rest, for a moment's respite and it was hard, so very hard, not to indulge. The wind was a menace, howling as great gusts swept across the grass and across the ruins, the rubble that had just a few hours earlier been Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I was almost glad Dumbledore couldn't see it. Although a part of me knew that had he lived, the castle walls would never have fallen. I knew myself to be a poor replacement at best.

I'd been late to the fight. It was a crucial mistake. I'd been holed out in Kent, chasing a lead on one of the more prominent Death Eater strongholds. I'd been searching them out for months, ever since we'd manage to do away with Riddle's last Horcrux. Despite his sway over the ministry, his ever growing army, sightings of the Dark Lord himself had become more and more rare. He knew what I'd done, and he'd grown cautious.

Which is why I was caught off guard by this attack. We all were. Things had been almost quiet over the past weeks and months, and the school stood as a bastion against the waves of darkness threatening to sweep across the land. No more. Gryffindor tower had shattered, been severed, collapsed, taking with it a generation of the brave. That had been the first blow, the first signal that the wards had been breached. From there the devastation spread. Hundreds of Death Eaters stormed the castle, casting curses indiscriminately, hoping to completely decimate any resistance in one sharp, decisive stroke. But the school was not without its own defenses, and soon the hallways rang out with the sound of steel as animated suits of armor came to the aid of their hallways. The teachers and older remaining students spilled out from their dorms firing spells, doing everything they could, and the battle began in earnest.

That had been hours ago. I'd arrived as soon as I'd been given word by McGonagall that there had been an attack. Now, I found myself pinned against the ground, in the mud, nearly passed out from exhaustion after hours of fighting both men and beasts. I lay there for a moment, pelted by the rain, the thunder, the storm that had come with the assault. I struggled slowly to my feet, sleeves torn, deep gashes in both my left side and leg. I could barely stand, unsteady at best, wildly searching for some sense of orientation. I could hardly remember dispatching the Death Eater who'd put the wound in my leg, but I knew he'd gone down at roughly the same moment I had. Only he wouldn't be getting up.

It was then that I saw him. It had been over a year since I'd seen him in person. Since he'd murdered Dumbledore before my eyes and I'd been powerless to stop it. The sight of the man, the nightmare, the sight of Riddle – it almost made me retch. It wasn't the time to be facing him. I'd already pushed myself through the collapsing halls, trying to save whoever I could. I'd been drained trying to stem the tide. I was already drowning. All Riddle would have to do to finish me off is hold my head under the surface until the bubbles stopped. I considered running, but his eyes were locked on me and I knew it wasn't an option. I'd have to stand and face him.

Spellfire raged about me, the shouts and clamor and chaos of the battle making it utterly impossible to know which side had the upper hand. There was nothing tactical about this fight; it was simply bodies throwing themselves at one another in desperation. For a soft, startling moment I pictured the coming dawn and nearly broke. How much would be left? Who would be left alive?

I came back to myself and recognized that I was most certainly not guaranteed to see that morning myself. At the moment it didn't seem likely at all. Tom strode across the field, seemingly invulnerable. He paid the battle no mind, he had eyes only for me, and my scar went up in flames inside my head. It was that old familiar agony and I could do nothing about it. Riddle smiled and I swayed softly on my heels.

"You seem tired, Harry," he whispered, the words tinged with malice.

It occurred to me that the Horcrux hunt was meaningless if I couldn't defeat him when things came to a head. We'd worked so hard to make him mortal. That didn't mean any of us were capable of killing him, now that Dumbledore was gone. My year with the headmaster had not been a waste, and in the year since his death I'd pushed myself further than I ever truly believed I could. But still, it was me matching my two years of serious training against his lifetime of experience and advantage in sheer power. I didn't hold much hope. I'd been hoping for an encounter a little more lopsided, with a few more allies. I had only myself. This was not when or where I'd wanted to fight. This was on his terms. But what could I do? He was standing right in front of me.

"Nothing to say, Potter?" he asked in that same piercing tone. "I thought you might have a few choice words for me after all this time."

I didn't speak. I had no desire to take his bait. Instead I gathered myself, seat and all, and tightened my grip on my wand. The Elder Wand. It was my only advantage, after all. I held the Deathstick in my hand and prepared myself.

"I will admit, Harry, that I worry about that wand. Truly, I do."

I almost smiled and flicked my wrist. A burst of red lanced in an arc across the field. He held up a hand and the spell dissipated upon his skin. It did, however, leave the distinct smell of human flesh burning. Riddle looked at his hand with something akin to surprise.

"You shouldn't have come, Tom." I said, summoning bravado I did not feel.

Riddle bared his teeth in a tight lipped grin. "He speaks! He calls me Tom!"

"That's your name."

With a laugh and a lightning quick motion, Riddle sent a bolt of energy directly towards my chest. I swept down with my wand arm and summoned a shield that bore the brunt of the impact. Still, I found myself pushed back by the sheer force of the blow.

"You've got rather large shoes to fill, Harry Potter. I'm not convinced you're ready."

I was done with banter. I was done with conversation. Adrenaline shot through me as I leapt forward, a snarl slipping from my lips. I raised my wand and with anger I did not know I could feel I cast the Killing Curse. The power behind the spell was overwhelming, amplified by the Elder Wand, the green light burst forth from the tip of the wand, an ocean breaking over a dam. There was a thrill, a rush as I incanted that particular unforgivable for the first time. I wanted the fight to be over. I didn't want it to even begin.

But I wasn't fast enough. Riddle almost lazily flicked his wand and summoned a stone from the earth to intercept the curse. With a second gesture he sent the same sickly green light back in my direction. I could only duck as I felt the malevolence of the spell over my shoulder. I straightened up only to take a blasting curse to the chest. I was blown back, the Elder Wand barely still within my grasp. I was terrified that I might lose it and thus my only advantage, but no. I tumbled through the grass and came to my feet in a somehow smooth motion. I dove back into the fray and the next minutes were a flurry of spells, mostly lethal, that were being traded back and forth between the two of us. I mostly dodged, constantly on the move, as he was content to merely bat away even the most brutal curses I knew. I was myself quite careful to avoid his eyes. My Occlumency had improved dramatically since my time as a student of Hogwarts, but I had absolutely no desire to go head to head with Riddle on that front.

As we fought the battle raged about us. Several times spells were slung in our

Direction from both sides; and in each case Riddle waved the spells away – whether or not they were aimed at him. He seemed to do it instinctively, without care, without worry, as if he could feel the attack coming before it had even fully formed. He was on another level, and while I was holding my own, I feared he was merely toying with me.

The longer we went on, the more the fight fell in his favor as well. My skin was dry, lips cracked, hair pressed and matted against my forehead. My soul was weary –energy a thing of the past, I couldn't even remember what it felt like. Riddle could sense my weakness and he closed in. I stood my ground and sent lances of white hot flame towards the man with as much frequency as I could muster in his general direction. I could barely hold up my arm, much less aim. Riddle laughed and waved his wand, a simple disarming spell and yet it came too quickly for me to manage. The Elder Wand slipped from my grasp and was lost.

"Invulnerability indeed," Tom said with a smirk, closing the last remaining gap between us. "I'm almost saddened, Harry Potter. Truly."

Riddle tilted his head to the side for a moment, considering me. With a sigh and then a shrug, we spoke the words. "Avada Kedavra!"

In desperation I dove to the side. My mind was racing. There was one way – one possible way I could end this fight. I'd broached it first with Dumbledore; I'd prepared it really with Hermione's help. It was dangerous, a last resort, last ditch idea. And this was the moment, if there was one. We'd argued about this over and over, Hermione and I. Neither of us knew if we should, even in a situation like this. Even if hope seemed gone, we couldn't decide if it would be worth it.

But that was when things were theoretical, far from the battlefield. There, rationality could reign. The big picture. The greater good. All that. Here, though, in the moment, all I wanted was to live. This desperate desire filled every inch of me, and uncertainty vanished as soon as it arose. I would survive. I would live. I would make it so that Tom Riddle couldn't kill me or anyone else, whatever it took.

It starts with the Trace. That thing the ministry places on each and every wand when we're young. Yes, the Trace is lifted as we age, and our spells are no longer recorded. The truth Dumbledore discovered is that the Trace never truly leaves us. There's a part of the spell, of the enchantment, that seeps into our very selves, our souls, whatever you want to call it. It's the thing that links us not only inexorably to our wands, but also to each other.

See, the Trace is a web, spiraling out from the Ministry itself. From the Department of Mysteries. From the Veil, actually. It seems academic, but the power of the Trace actually relates back to the Veil, to the blackness, from the space between space. And this web touches all of us, sticks with us from the moment we use a wand that's been tethered to the Trace.

Most of the Ministry has no idea. It is one of the many secrets hidden away, kept within the Department of Mysteries. A secret that Dumbledore stumbled upon during his study of the Veil following Sirius' death.

So the Trace connects us. It was Hermione, of all people, who realized that the Trace could maybe be a weapon. We spent a long time experimenting, meditating; using our Occlumency to turn inward in search of that feather touch, that strand of web within us all. And we found it. We learned to traverse the lines, project ourselves through ourselves to the source, to the Veil, to the whispers.

That was as far as we'd gotten. The rest, the part that made it dangerous, a weapon, that was theoretical. But what did I have to lose?

I held up a hand to Riddle as I collected myself. He frowned at me softly and waited. He did not strike me down.

"Yes, Harry Potter? You have something to say?"

I needed seconds, only seconds. I spoke to the man, my enemy, as I devoted my real focus, my whole self, my energy inward.

"What do you know of the Trace, Tom?" I asked softly as inwardly I followed the line, the web.

He actually looked confused, as much as I'd ever seen him. "I'm afraid I don't see the relevance."

I saw his wand twitch in his hand and gripped it tightly. In that moment of looking he seemed to sense that something was happening, but he didn't know what. It seemed to almost scare him, and there was this slight moment of indecision before he narrowed his eyes and raised his wand to end the struggle.

That moment was exactly what I needed. I was there, at the Veil. I was at the source, I could hear the voices of the dead and damned, I could feel the energy of the living, a massive power and steady pulse; I could feel the magic of everyone in Britain. It was all tied together at the Veil. I could feel their magic. Our magic.

It was now or never.

I fought with all the energy I had. In my head it was an epic struggle, in the world only a second passed. I threw my whole self, my purpose, my determination, my very soul against the pulse and took the power in my hands. I could feel it, it was tangible, both where I stood at Hogwarts and in the Department. I wound the web of the Trace around my fingers and took a long, slow breath. Voldemort raised his wand to strike.

And then I _pulled_.

And broke the line.


End file.
